


Mercy

by LadyVader



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Post-Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Potions Accident, Room of Requirement, Written Pre-Deathly Hallows, Written Pre-Half Blood Prince
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 20:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18599263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVader/pseuds/LadyVader
Summary: After an accident during potions, Draco finds himself trapped in the RoR with an increasingly violent and emotional Harry, fisticuffs and feelings ensue.[Another from the files of long ago, if it needs additional tags or fixes, please let me know]





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for violence and potion/injury-addled behaviour.

He watched him - shuddering - an expression of distaste carefully concealing his fascination with the trembling, poisoned boy. Potter’s hair, usually a scruffy, burnished mop of black locks, now hung in sweat-drenched tendrils about his face, clinging to his temples and the base of his neck, gleaming in the dull light from Draco’s wand. His skin looked strangely translucent, from what Draco could make of it, as Potter sat with his head buried in his drawn-up knees, shoulders convulsing with every demanding breath he took, glaringly pale hands cradling his face against his legs, wet with perspiration but with a deathly white pallor that seemed to not only reflect the light but absorb it.

As if Potter’s obvious physical troubles had not been enough to secure Draco’s interest, he now suspected that the Gryffindor was cracking, quietly and subtly, he’d admit, but still, Potter, Harry Potter, his very own personal nemesis, was losing it before him. He should have been jubilant, he should have claimed the credit and announced it to the world. But he didn’t, and he wasn’t. Despite the obvious benefits to Potter’s total mental breakdown, there was a definite flaw in this happy little scene.

Draco was scared.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He was supposed to understand himself better than anyone ever could, but as he sat with bright grey eyes glued to the troubled figure across the room Draco was a stranger to himself.

The day had begun as most days did, unwillingly, cold feet pressed into cool flooring, lamenting the poor circulation that resisted the vague warming charms the House Elves cast during the Autumn and Winter terms and going over his mental checklist for the day ahead. Although Potter had certainly featured on said list (the usual, must practice – have to beat Potter, taunt Potter & pathetic sidekicks whenever possible et cetera), Draco had not envisioned anything remotely close to the events that had jointly awaited them.

It was what Draco privately thought of as ‘Monster Morning’, Magical Creatures with that excuse for a Professor lumping sentences into one large grunt and trying to get them all killed first with Double Potions to follow. It wasn’t that Draco didn’t like his House Head, quite the opposite in fact, but three hours with the bloody Gryffindo-gooders was more than any sane pure-blood could stand and since the oh so ‘regrettable’ death of his mangy mongrel of a godfather, Potter had buckled down enough so that all the fun had been simply sucked right out of Potions, as the insults to Potter had dwindled by at least fifty percent.

In the first week of 6th year, Draco had thought he’d never make it to the weekend without wrapping his hands about Potter’s throat and just squeezing, just to see how Potter would look and feel when at Draco’s mercy, helpless and mistreated as Draco’s father must surely be in Azkaban.

He’d wanted to seek the Gryffindor out once, ask him how he dealt with it, the pain, the sting of loss and the seething fury at how useless you could find yourself, unable to protect those you care about. But somehow, he’d suspected Potter might kill him, or vice versa, so he’d just let the rage seep through only to find it flouted by the Boy Wonder who, apparently, had more important things on his mind than the Slytherin’s justified hatred for him.

That was why that morning it had been quite a shock to Draco to find that not only had he succeeded in pissing Potter off by abusing his ‘friends’, but that he’d achieved it by such a degree that Potter felt compelled to stalk after him through the dungeons to Potions and reward this effort with a hard shove and swift kick to his stomach. However, after the debacle the year before with Potter and one of those fucking Weasley twins trying to beat the living shite out of him, Draco had learned not to just wait for his so-called protectors to catch on and save him.

With a yell of outrage that such a person who had, until recently, appeared to deem Draco beneath his notice, Draco had seized Potter’s ankle as it swung again to do him yet more damage, rolling to send Potter sprawling over the floor, Draco rolling atop him, beneath him, atop him, beneath until he managed to push away and upwards, straddling the startled and furious brunet, pinning his shoulders to restrict his arms before slamming his fists repeatedly into the Would-Be Hero’s face with wet sounding crunches that had made Draco smile and wince concurrently.

His victory had been short-lived at best as thin pinching fingers had clawed him up by his hair off of Potter and Draco had known fear then, for the first time beholding his House Head ablaze with fury at him rather than some hapless Hufflepuff.

Snape had placed them either side of the doorway to his class, a strangled rage-drenched command for them to stay put and try to behave a little less like savages until he could come back out to escort them both to Dumbledore to ensure that for once such pathetic behaviour would not go unchecked. All in all, Draco had decided, as the cold fingers of shame crept across him, it was a thoroughly dreadful situation to be in. His favourite teacher was angry with him, the potion they were supposed to have been working on was ‘most’ complex, and he had been anticipating it for weeks, and Merlin only knew what horrific punishment they would receive. He’d dared to glance sideways then, taking in Potter’s stony appearance, the distinct glow of wet blood about his nose and lips. It was worth it, he’d concluded and straightened his spine, calmly awaiting whatever penalty the Potions master might impose.

Five minutes had passed, then ten, Draco’s ears lingering remorsefully over every long syllable of the ingredients that he could ‘just’ make out barging its way out through the door to torment him. Snape had obviously got caught up in the explanations of the fragile concoction he was expecting them to attempt (attempt and fail, Draco assumed) that day, and his bones seemed heavier with the longing to be in there, exceeding the Gryffindors in almost every way, and his stomach knotted itself in yearning.

He’d fancied that he could make out Snape repeating the same line over and over, his voice seeming to pick up a little more ire with every short tempered burst of speech. Longbottom. He must have been explaining it to Longbottom, Draco had reasoned, before sinking further yet into disappointment. If Snape was making the added effort to at least ‘try’ to make sure Longbottom couldn’t ruin the potion, then there was a good chance that at least some of the ingredients were rare, possibly volatile. Another glance was flung aside to his slumped corridor companion and the acrid stench of heating cauldrons curled under the door, and for a fleeting moment Draco felt his brief spark of victory to be unworthy of the sacrifice and his fingers itched to push open that door, sidle in and take his rightful place before a bubbling and beautifully complicated brew.

Even as Draco had stood pondering his next move, fate had taken matters into its own hands and with something of a gurgle, and an odd truncated sound as though something within the room was being smothered against its wishes, chaos had erupted suddenly inside the potions lab.

Instantly there had been uproar, a cacophony of screams, strangled yelps and the oddly frightening sound of the Potions Master frantically screaming cleaning charms. Draco had stiffened in shock, but Potter, being Potter, had flung himself at the door handle, jerking it open to stagger back, coughing, as bitter blue smoke weaved and curled its way from the room into the corridor, and even as his eyes had filled, raw and watering already, Draco had seen the madness within.

Benches were overturned, cauldrons spilling light pink potion across the floor with the exception of one, a large battered cauldron near the front that smoked and belched forth the pungent blue smoke, deep inky indigo splattering the walls, students and one seemingly babbling Potions Master.

Draco would have let his eyes widen at the scene before him, had he not already narrowed them against the blue, stinging haze, agape as he watched the sobbing, shaking mass that was usually his favourite teacher desperately wading through the quivering bodies. Some of the other students lay laughing, some staring into space, some were weeping and some… Well. Draco’s eyebrows had shot skyward, trying to not stare at the grisly heaving mass of limbs that appeared to be a few his housemates, now wildly gyrating against the others, some willing and some not, he had noted in horror and even as he had swivelled his gaze to rest upon a weeping Granger whose neck was being most enthusiastically kissed by the Weasel, Snape had made it to the door, bursting through it and slamming it behind him in desperation.

“God, oh god, get away, get far away, boys, get help, no stay here… gods you’re just babies, you’re just children…” his usually sneering, cold voice broke as he seized Draco by his robes, grasping Harry by his collar, “Listen to me, its, it’s communicable, the Aperio Occultus, I mean it’s oh gods don’t, don’t touch it… so young, too young for all of this, “ He then carefully cupped the horrified Gryffindor’s skull, pulled him close to whisper, “Don’t let them take it from you, Potter, it’s all there is, there’s no good and evil, no right or wrong just… just… oh god, I need Albus… go get away from here both of you, I… I, I must go!”

He’d shoved the boys back then, breath slammed out of them as they hit the wall, watching in horrified silence as their normally austere potions master fled the scene. Barely a second passed before Potter had virtually flung himself through the doorway, screaming for his sadly warped little sidekicks, however, before he’d even come close to reaching the sobbing, yet embracing pair or that fat, quivering lump, sobbing wildly over the severely botched potion, he had been somewhat waylaid.

A strangled roar had emitted from the Slytherin side of the chaotic room, with Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini and even, yes, Parkinson, flinging themselves at the Boy Wonder. Draco would have smiled, but despite the almost timely battles that occurred around the school, he had yet to witness such a violent outburst as the one that had suddenly unfolded before him. He’d found himself wincing as several fists had careened into Potter’s sides, feet shooting out to trip the Gryffindor even as the first blows fell, tumbling both the victim and his attackers to the ground. He might have applauded, maybe grabbed a seat and watched, but sadly within seconds Potter had beaten back all but Greg Goyle whose own ineptness had served in Potter’s favour, toppling him into a table and outwards from the scuffle.

Draco had laughed, scorn curling his lip, “Oh, nice one, Goyle. Better sit this one out, eh? Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself rather than... say… Potter?”

He’d been unprepared for the sudden ball of fury rocketing towards him, closely followed by another, then another till, quite oddly, he was the one surrounded by angry Slytherins and Potter lay shocked and panting angrily upon the floor.

“I’m sick of you.”

Draco had quirked an eyebrow, “I’m sorry?”

“No, no you’re not, Draco, you never are… you don’t even care, we know it. You don’t even like us, you’re no better than them…” And then Vin had chimed in,

“We’re not stupid, y’know, not really, just cause we don’t get stuff like you do doesn’t mean we don’t get it at all and, and we get you, Draco, and you’re the stupid one 'cos me ‘n Greg, we’re not the dumb slaves you think we are. We’re more and ‘we’ know that… but you don’t, Draco, you don’t know, and we do…”

They’d closed about him like a wall of angry flesh and fists with Potter staggering to his feet just behind them. “Ummm, a little help here, Potter?” Draco had winced as the waver in his voice carried eagerly through every syllable, swallowing his pride as he watched the green-eyed boy’s glance waver between him and his friends. “You can’t help them, Potter, Snape said so, _‘he’_ couldn’t help them and you can’t either… so if you wouldn’t mind…?”

“Ummm… but…”

“Potter, get a fucking clue! You cannot help _them_ , but you can help _me,_ so move your arse already!”

“Who the ‘fuck’ do you think you’re talking to, Malfoy?” The last, delivered by a stony-faced Thomas, filled Draco’s heart with dread. Finnegan had slowly risen from where he’d sat, uncharacteristically sombre, to stand next to Dean, glowering then smiling thinly as more Gryffindors arose to glare at the Slytherin.

“I ‘asked’ you, who the ‘fuck’ you thought you were talking to, Malfoy? It can’t be Harry here, because, in case you hadn’t heard, he’s the fucking saviour of the wizarding world and it occurs to me now that Death Eater scum like you shouldn’t even be allowed to breathe the same air that he does.”

“Or maybe just not breathe at all.”

Finnegan’s eyes gleamed, and Weasley and Granger's head’s finally wheeled round to take notice, and Draco watched Potter’s eyes widen with astonishment and not just a touch of horror.

“Potter…” it had stopped just short of a plea and for that Draco was grateful, happier yet was he at the speed with which Potter shot across the room to the door, standing just between Draco and the slowly gathering crowd of seething students.

“Ummm,” Potter’s hand had grasped at Draco’s sleeve, slowly inching him towards the door, slow steps as Greg moved closer, glaring at Potter, too, “I think we’re just going to go get some help now, ok, everyone? You all just wait here, and we’ll be back in just a… oomph!” Crabbe had then shot forwards to embed a fist into Potter’s stomach, snarling at his interference and Draco, without further prompting, had shot out through the door, belatedly yelling ‘ _Run, Potter’_ as the room erupted into a war zone.

He made it barely a few steps before Potter burst out after him, their classmates all streaming out after them, hollering, fists raised to the sky, desperate for blood and apparently it had ceased to matter who's at that point.

They had rocketed through the corridors, gasping with exertion before they had even halfway made it from the dungeons, lungs burning and seizing with every frantic step before Potter had swung them around a corner, grabbing at Draco’s robes and screaming “We can’t run forever, Malfoy,” in a decidedly melodramatic and obvious fashion.

He would have considered it beneath him to yell back under usual circumstances, but having roughly twenty students chasing them with nothing more on their minds than a good sound beating slightly altered the situation. “We won’t reach Dumbledore,” he’d yelled, just ‘knowing’ that’s where the bloody teacher’s pet was hoping to steer them, “We need to get safe… FAST, I… I can’t run much farther, Potter!” It had stung to admit that, admit to his supposed ‘equal’ on the other team, that maybe he wasn’t as fit as the Gryffindor seeker, so it made him feel marginally better when Potter had simply nodded once before seizing his arm once more.

“This way” he’d cried, again far too dramatically, and Draco, fool that he apparently was, had followed.

They’d barely rounded a corner roughly two corridors later and panting, Potter had slammed his hands against the wall, brow furrowed in desperation or concentration and suddenly a door had appeared, Potter jerking Draco through before he’d had time to do more than make a vague ‘Eep’ noise as their pursuers closed in, the door slamming in their faces and, it seemed, firmly locking them out.

If only he had realised then that it wasn’t them who were locked _out_ , rather, it was he and Potter who were locked _in_.

He’d slowly turned to take in their new location, frowning at the empty, dark expanse of the room before him. “Well, I must say, this place was decidedly more lavish on my last visit… let the Weasel decorate did you, Potter?”

Oddly enough, his ‘joke’ had done little to alleviate the tension as Potter had turned to him, glaring as per usual, his own unfocused eyes taking in their surroundings.

“I guess I wasn’t quite specific enough, I only thought of somewhere for us to hide.” Draco had caught the spark of fault hiding in Potter’s words and had instantly thrown himself into berating Potter for his now accepted stupidity. “Oh for Merlin’s sake, Potty, you can somehow discover and recall the location of a secret room in this sodding castle, a room designed to give you what you require, but you don’t even bloody well think to get chairs for us? I’d heard you lived in a hovel with those muggles of your’s, but please, Potter, don’t inflict your bad taste on the rest of us who require at least a ‘touch’ of elegance.”

Potter had rolled his eyes at Draco’s sarcastic tone then, before tweaking one ebony brow upwards in a far too mocking manner for the Slytherin’s liking, “Oh I’m ‘so’ sorry, Malfoy.” He’d quite shockingly drawled, running an exasperated hand through his dishevelled rat’s nest of a hairstyle, “How perfectly ‘awful’ of me to think about our safety before the décor. You’re right I should be ashamed of myself, I…” his voice had trailed off then, the words seemingly shrivelling on his tongue and Draco had smiled, imagining that Potter’s seeming eloquence and wit had abandoned him after making their debut only seconds before.

He’d turned, scornful words ready to spring from his lips, but the shock of Potter’s pallor had silenced him before he had even begun, wide green eyes fixed on the broad stain of inky blue liquid seeping into his palm. “It was in my hair,” Potter stammered quietly, and Draco watched in horror as Potter’s pupils shrunk to pinpoints, leaving bright, anxious green iris’s fixed on the Slytherin’s stunned expression.

“Shit,” Draco muttered with an alarming degree of calm before grabbing for his wand, pointed first at Potter then at himself, the strongest cleansing charm he could think of spilling past his lips even as his mind recalled the same words being yelled by Snape, muffled through the potions door.

“Shit,” he said again, “Ok, Potter, we need to get out of here so get ready to run again, preferable ‘away’ from me now that you’re all nice and contaminated and… what?” The last had been spat with a minimum of patience as the brunet stood, slowly shaking his head, eyes soft with sorrow.

“No,” he mumbled softly, “Door’s locked.”

In retrospect Draco had wished he hadn’t been ‘quite’ so cocky in the moments that followed, sneering at Potter and mockingly waving his wand before turning to hurl an unlocking charm at said door. The door seemed to take exception to this, hurling the charm back at Draco with enough force to send him hurtling head over heels into the darkened space behind him to sprawl inelegantly against the floor.

“L, Lumos.” Potter’s hand shook as his wand lit weakly, barely lighting more than a few feet about him as he walked unsteadily to Draco’s side, “Y’see, M..Malfoy, I, I only wanted some, somewhere to hide so, so I asked for somewhere we could hide till the potion wore off.”

Draco had stared for a full minute at the now wobbling would-be hero, his eyes resting balefully on the unhelpfully silent Gryffindor before Potter’s point had struck him, and he sagged against the floor, groaning, hands over his face as the reality of the situation hit home.

Potter had asked for them to be enclosed until the potion wore off, but Potter was now infected himself, and the room wasn’t going to release them till the blasted concoction had run its course. They were trapped.

“Shit.”

After several minutes of cursing, Draco had tried to think the situation through. After several more minutes of blaming, snarling, cursing and general tantrum throwing Draco had reached a somewhat more rational state. Snape had said the potion was communicable, but Potter only seemed affected now that he had come into full contact with it and now that Draco really looked hard, he could see no trace of the potion or any of the usual ink blots or dirt smudges on the boy wonder, most likely thanks to his cleaning charms. However, it was better to be safe than sorry.

“Alright then, Potter, if we’re going to have to wait out this bloody thing… you sodding moron, then its best you sit over ‘here’,” he ushered Potter into a corner with a minimum of contact before lighting his own wand and retreating to a corner closer to the door, “and I’ll stay ‘here’ and wait for you to do whatever you’re going to do.” He’d recalled the students in the lab, staring into space, lost in introspection and if Potter’s steadily slowing movements, fractured speech and lengthening silences were to be believed then hopefully the brunet was about to go the same way.

For a while, Draco had tried running through his homework in his head, concentrating on the studying that he had yet to do and attempting to ignore the shaking boy in the corner. He had just moved onto his Arithmancy tables when a soft whimper reached him, then a stifled sob and, almost against his will, his eyes had circled round to rest upon his nemesis.

The brunet had shrugged off his robes and sat, sweat-drenched, in just his shirt-tails and trousers, trembling wildly, skin white and glowing slickly in the wand-light as Potter rocked gently, hands covering his face, moaning gently, breath hitching here and there as he whimpered, “no, no, no…. Please…” in fevered accents.

To say Draco had been mesmerised would be an understatement.

He’d sat now, watching, for longer than he could measure, the initial almost gratification at Potter’s condition slowly switching to fear as he watched the hero crumbling. He knew he should do something, for his father, for the cause he had been imprisoned for, just lift his wand and curse until the broken boy was nothing more than a shell before him. But he couldn’t, he just couldn’t, and for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why.

He sat now, lost in thought, trying to dredge the fury over his father's treatment up from his guts, warp it into something vicious, something legendary that would let him hate, hate so hard he could easily finish what the potion had started, finish Potter off.

But he couldn’t, he couldn’t…

“You don’t even care, do you?” It was spat, flung at him from Potter’s twisted reddened lips, venom green eyes conveying the hate even as the words collided with Draco’s ears.

“S, sorry?”

“He wasn’t just my family, Malfoy, he was yours. He was your fucking cousin, and you don’t even care that he’s dead, you don’t care, you’re too upset your fucking father’s locked up and you don’t give a fuck that your fucking aunt killed my family, my ‘only’ fucking family, you _bastard_!”

Potter was moving forwards, wand clutched tightly in one of the fists bearing his weight as he crawled towards Draco, a dark, malevolent shape in the darkness that sent Draco rocketing back to that night in the Forbidden Forest in their 1st year and he was frightened.

“Potter?” he gasped, quite frankly doubting it was the ‘good’ and noble Gryffindor as he took in the brutal light in Potter’s eyes fixed on him, his mind reeling over the brunets words, ‘ _Family, family, my family’._

“What’s wrong, Lucius junior? Didn’t know we were almost related? Too fucking late now, would have only meant more deaths, family kills family, everyone loses someone, Malfoy, and you know something? It fucking hurts.”

Draco’s fingers tightened reflexively on his wand, shivering as Potter crawled slowly closer, too slow, too graceful for his usual inept attacks, too close, far too close to the stuff of his nightmares, that black monster slinking forwards in the forest far away from where his father could protect him… his father.

“I know, I know it hurts, Potter, and I’m hurt, too, they… they took my father, Potter, took my dad away and I’m… I’m lost without him, Potter, I… I hurt, they took my dad, and it hurts to think of him there, I hate it.”

Potter was close now, so close and those bottomless green eyes dipped to stare at the floor, sighing as he came to slowly halt on his haunches before the Slytherin. “It hurts,” Potter concurred, “And you blame yourself because no matter how sorry you are, how much you love them, no matter how much you cry you can’t change it, and it _hurts_ just to know that, that he’s so far away and you can’t hear him, see him, and you’re lost… so _lost_ …”

Tears dripped slowly down the Boy Who Lived’s face and Draco felt his own eyes stinging, swallowing hastily on the lump in his throat to murmur, “I know, Potter, I do.  I feel it, too, and I hate it.”

Potter sniffed, and his shoulders hitched slightly, “There’s just one thing though, Malfoy…” His head came up, and Draco started in terror as those green eyes narrowed on him in hatred, rough hands tearing his wand from fear stiffened fingers and flung away into the darkness as Potter slammed Draco’s head into the wall, “Your father is still alive, and Sirius is _DEAD_!”

Draco cried out, head colliding with the stone behind him with a bone-jarring crack, doubling over as a fist pummeled into his stomach, blasting the air from his lungs.

“Your family killed one of their own, Malfoy, maybe I should kill one, too, a life for a life maybe, hmm? Maybe then it’d be fair, maybe then your father, your fucking ‘evil’ aunt would understand, maybe they’d feel it because you don’t know, ‘Draco’, you don’t know, you’ve wanted me dead for so fucking long I don’t think you’ve ever thought about just how much it HURTS!”

Potter seized him by his throat, his hair, yanking him forwards, dragging him down so that his head smacked against the floor, once, twice as Potter shook him, yelling into his face as the hands at his throat tightened, tightened…

“Think I should kill you, Malfoy? Think I should just stub you out of existence with all the joy you’ve got banked up for my death someday? Think your daddy would care, think they’d cry for you? I might… I might cry, Malfoy, because when you’re dead you’re ‘gone’ and nothing, not wishing, not tears can bring you back, and you leave people, you leave them all alone, so FUCKING alone, Malfoy….”

He couldn’t breathe, it hurt and oh, gods he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t break free. “Potter…” not a word, not a whisper, but a desperate raw, croaked plea.

The callused fingers tightened, and Draco imagined he could see his pulse shaking its way through Potter’s palm to reverberate through his entire frame, only those blazing dark eyes holding steady on his anguished countenance.

“Please,” Draco croaked, meaning it honestly for perhaps the first time in his life, “Potter… please don’t hurt me.”

He wished it felt worse to be so afraid, but the greater pain came, not from admitting his fear, but from knowing, believing absolutely that Potter wouldn’t, could not truly long to kill him. Yet here he was, the world fading at the corners of his vision as the Gryffindor slowly squeezed the life from him.

A shuddering sob wracked its way through Draco’s stifled chest, and his eyes burned, dry lips barely moving, his whisper a mere break in his slowing gasps.

“… _Please_ …”

…and the world seemed to slowly roll off its axis and fall away, a single tear burning from the corner of his eye into his hair when slowly, Potter leant down, concern inexplicably crossing his face as he released his hold on the bluing boy’s throat.

Draco tried as best he could with his murky mind to command himself to breathe in, but the world was still tipping, falling when Potter brushed warm fingertips through the tear tracks on Draco’s cheek. Draco swallowed, wanting to cry out to the seemingly now calmer boy, but his body would not obey him, and it was with a certain detachment he watched Potter leaning down, over his face, pressing red, bitten lips to his and with an almost explosive pain he felt warm, moist air being forced into his chest.

Once, twice the heavy air filled him, and as Potter pulled away, he heard a faint whistle in his chest before chokes wracked him and his eyes streamed with the effort of breathing both out and inwards without the cramping pain now assailing him.

The room rocked and tilted wildly both behind and before his eyes, his stomach churning fitfully as the ground seemed to lurch, his fingers scrabbling desperately for purchase against the floor. He choked, breath burning him, the effort of it too much as he hacked, trying to reach up to clutch his spasming throat only to find his hands disobedient, falling limply as the room again spun and tilted beneath him. He sobbed and whimpered, his head hurt, he couldn’t breathe, and he wanted his father, oh god he wanted his daddy… daddy…

Cold hands pressed him to the floor, holding him steady even as he rocked and surged, crying between gasped breaths till they were stunted, slowed, till they rolled in and out, burning slightly now, in and out, a warm mouth pressed against his, warm hands stroking his chest and sides, in and out till his eyelids drooped and all the fight ran out of him.

He blinked slowly, staring upwards, unable to make out the ceiling in the dim light from Potter’s wand discarded nearby, listening to the blood rushing around his body and pounding in his skull. A warm hand brushed yet more tears from his skin, and he whimpered, shivering as a warm mouth pressed close and damp to his ear.

“Sssh, Malfoy, it’s ok… don’t cry, don’t cry. I’m sorry I hurt you, sorry, but Dudley did first aid once, he just kissed the CPR doll, but I read it, I read his books, so you see, it alright, I’ll take care of you, just don’t cry, don’t cry…”

The mouth moved, and belatedly Draco connected it to Potter as Potter’s face suddenly was above and over his, shushing him gently when Draco whimpered, stroking his hair as he dragged him up to lay him back against his body. Draco’s head lolled, weak on Potter’s hot, damp shoulder, Draco’s back to his chest while Potter ran unsteady hands over his face and head, murmuring disconsolately at the bumps he found there. “I, I think you are concussed, Malfoy,” he stated in a softly slurring tone, swaying himself as he shifted so that his own back was propped against the wall. “It’s ok though because soon they’ll come for us and I can take care of you till then just... you just don’t go to sleep, ok? 'Cos that’s bad.”

Draco was listening. Honestly, he was, but Potter’s words fell heavily against his brow, the tremors in his chest rocking him and his eyelids were so low now, shutting out the swirling dim ceiling above…

“Malfoy! You CANNOT fall asleep… damn it, wake up, wake up, Draco, god Draco, don’t sleep, don’t sleep…”

Rough hands seized him, gripped his jaw and jostled his head, setting the clanging, ricocheting ball of lead on course about his skull, tearing another strangled, crushed sob from his throat.

Whispered words now, moist and frantic, up and down his cheek and temple, large shaking hand cradling his skull, “You can’t sleep, Malfoy, you hear me?” More shaking and Draco moaned weakly, “Sssh, sssh it’s ok, just don’t sleep, you mustn’t, can’t sleep, Malfoy, it’s like really, really bad... you... You might die…” Something like a sob gusted over Draco’s cruelly still opened eyes, “Don’t die, Draco, please don’t, don’t… don’t die don’t die…”

Tears ran hotly down Draco’s face, his or Potter’s, he wasn’t sure, but he trembled and shook, quaky and nauseous against Potter’s chest as the sobs rose and crested in his throat. His lungs crackled and fought his confusion as the tears weighed heavy on his chest, rasping and shifting fitfully against the sudden tightening embrace, as his body fought to both cry and breathe at the same time. A large, damp hand pressed his head up and back then, the strong curved palm tilting him to rest against a steady, warm shoulder as Potter moved again to block the light. The Gryffindor’s lips rested hotly on Draco’s, wet with sweat and tears as more sweet, moist breath was pushed deep from Potter’s chest through and into Draco’s. Potter lifted his mouth, fingers rubbing undoubtedly grubby marks across Draco’s face as he stroked the tears away, frowning and blinking as he listening to the air whistling back out of Draco’s lungs before repeating the process again, his other hand stroking low on the Slytherin’s abdomen, pressing rhythmically with the blond’s clumsy breaths in and out.

Tears continued to run unchecked down Draco’s pale cheeks, body shaking with pain and fright even as Potter’s hands seemed to stroke and soothe his skin back from the heavy, numbed blanket he had felt crushed his whole body, the effort and weight of just being, breathing, feeling almost too much as he battled to keep his eyes wide and his lungs full.

A tremor ran through him, not his own, but the echo of the shock that ran through Potter who rocked him now, lips whispering at his temple, cheeks and mouth as he blurred his words with Draco’s tears.

“How could I do this to you? How did I hurt you so much, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry…. Please… please… don’t cry, I’m so sorry.”

The breath hitched again in his chest, new tears spilling as the fear trembled low in his belly once more, Potter’s hand still stroking where it cradled his jaw and throat, holding him back against his shoulder, clasp loose and easy, but close, so close to fitting his fingers into the death marks they had left previously, marks of intent, of hatred.

Potter had his mouth on his again, moving quickly even as Draco’s breath had faltered, breathing slow and sweet inside Draco, the Slytherin’s head lolling as his air supply doubled with their joint efforts to breathe for him, Potter’s mouth moving on his as Draco whimpered fretfully beneath the advance of Potter’s mouth from contact to caress. “Sssh,” he whispered, words wet with both boy’s saliva, lips slick and flexing, “Don’t cry, Malfoy, don’t cry.”

His mouth lifted then, leaving Draco’s own wide and gasping in its absence, mind whirling fitfully in the aftermath of the not-kiss, a gentle nudge of Potter’s nose against his cheek and jaw, a slow slide of his face against Draco’s, smoothing the tears from Draco’s skin with his own as he nuzzled into his temple. “Hate it when people cry,” he whispered, “So helpless, don’t do hugging much and kissing…” His breath huffed hot into Draco’s hair, “Can’t hug for crying how did she think she could kiss, makes no sense, made me want to cry, too, so not him and not him for her, too, so she cried, but she didn’t stop, and her mouth was so wet… I, I hate tears, and I’m so sorry, so sorry I made your’s, made you cry… so sorry, sorry, sorry…” And then his mouth moved again, lips following the wet marks trailing down Draco’s face before slowly following the deep bruises now purpling the smooth expanse of Draco throat, kissing, or rather not-kissing, the path his hands had taken.

Draco took as deep a breath as he was able, trying to concentrate on reorganising his befuddled brain rather than the odd stroking sensation of Potter’s mouth against his bruises. Aperio. Snape had said it, Aperio something. Aperio… Draco knew that, he knew he did if his head would just stop beating madly, thrashing his brain against his skull with every throb of his heart, Aperio, Aperio… to… to… to show? No… to reveal.

Potter was whispering again, his fingers stroking Draco’s hair back from his brow, tickling through the sweat-damp strands as he apologised profusely still, shaking with remorse and Draco’s mind latched onto these things with fervour, Potter had hurt him, Potter was sorry, so sorry, so sorry… Aperio: To Reveal.

Was this, all of this, what Potter hid inside, revealed now by force? Draco recalled the murderous glint in the brunet’s eyes, the tight grasp at his throat and the burning stench of hatred seemingly seeping towards him from Potter’s pores, tears still blurring in Draco’s eyes as fear melded into something new… something unexpected… hurt?

“I’m sorry, so sorry, Malfoy, don’t really want to hurt you, just so angry…. So sad and… and hurting…” Calloused thumbs traced lines at the corners of Draco’s eyes, casual but careful, with Potter’s own unfocused gaze upon him, “And you hurt, too… you said so, I remember… said you were sad and lost and lonely…”

The Gryffindor’s voice trailed off and his eyes glossed over with new tears, burning tight against the surface, refusing to fall even as Potter squared his jaw, “Can’t though, can’t be sad or lonely… no more tears to shed, can’t waste the time I’ve got with Ron & Herm & Hagrid…” his lower lip wobbled before being firmly restrained by a stern set of white teeth sinking into it, Potter turning his head to press his face, hide his loss into Draco’s temple, “They’re all that’s left now… all I’ve got. Got to protect them, enjoy them before…” a tear rolled down over Draco’s skin from Potter’s face, dropping to roll sleekly into his eye, stinging there as though to make Draco share in the Gryffindor’s pain and the Slytherin turned his head further into Potter’s, hiding his face from the sting and… and… it was all so messy, Potter’s pain, it hurt him and confused him.

Potter’s arms tightened about Draco, and he sighed in momentary contentment as the security of the action seemed to still his jolting, jarred brain till only the slow inhalation and exhalation beneath him seemed his only point of focus.

“Do you really miss your father?”

The world went haywire, slamming into his mind at all angles and speeds as he tried to summon a response, just one rather than all which now seemed to hover behind his eyes, lips, skin, beating wilder than his heart within his chest. He nodded slowly and whimpered, a grating, strangled sound from his tortured throat, as his head objected to his motion.

Potter passed his rough palm across Draco’s forehead, cooing gently at his patient’s fussing, his fingertips probing gently at tear tracks before trailing up and over, pressing on flashing points of pain, bright white and hot, so hot, inside his skull.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Malfoy, not really, I just wanted to make you feel what I feel, what they feel… so easy to hate you when you cause so much hurt… but now you’re hurt, and I feel like, like when I look at you, and I see how hurt you are now because of me and how lost, how lost and frightened I feel like I hurt me…” Those fingertips trailed back down to cup Draco’s jaw, lift his face to be stared at, stroked with a questioning gaze.  “You are everything I’ve ever truly hated in one person,” Potter whispered, and Draco’s face crumpled as that spark, that burning hate swam in Potter’s eyes again briefly, “But I see your pain now… and it’s my pain… it’s just like mine… it hurts me… hurts you, too… you… you’re just like …me.”

Draco opened his mouth to object, feeling he should say something to alter this notion, this parody of their persons but, even as his vocal chords thrummed painfully around his attempted declaration, he could see that anger, feel his hands on Potter’s throat, choking, hurting, hurting for every loss, every ache and hurt… for his father…

Your father is still alive, and Sirius is DEAD

Sirius is DEAD… DEAD, DEAD… Your father is still alive…

Alive.

Dead.

Was it that simple? Draco wanted to shake his head, both to clear his mind and in obvious negation, too. It wasn’t possible, Potter wasn’t right. Draco had the right to his anger, his pain, the consuming desire to hurt just so that ‘someone’ would understand, would know that dreadful bleeding slice in his chest as their own… but maybe, maybe where his was a slice perhaps Potter’s heart was… gone? Broken? Shattered? Anger stirred briefly in Draco as he rebelled against the notion that Potter’s pain, his loss was more than his, but then, as Potter pushed gently at the crease between Draco’s eyebrows, smoothing his scowl, the notion settled on him. Their loss was different, but their pain was the same, universal, ripping, gut-wrenching and life-shattering.

They ‘both’ hurt. Both.

Draco shuddered in light of his epiphany and Potter tightened his arms again.

“Are you cold, Malfoy?” Potter’s voice was solicitous despite the slur and Draco tried to shake his head, wincing and wishing he could think of something, anything, to make his head cease hurting… he’d ask Potter, but he wasn’t himself either, and besides, he’d never really ask Potter, showing weakness was wrong and foolish in war… he crinkled his brow slowly, trying to stop the sweat droplets forming from deploying themselves into his eyes.

“Hot,” he said, or rather tried to say, a coughing spasm drowning out the gravelled word as his throat rebelled against his speaking to Potter at all, Potter sitting him up straighter against his chest and unhelpfully banging on his back a few times. The Gryffindor took careful note of the sweat now dripping off the exhausted blond.

“You look hot,” he said simply before easing Draco forward so that only Potter’s drawn up thighs prevented him from slumping forward against the cool floor as Potter tickled at his ribs, fumbling at his shirt before blessed cool air touched Draco’s skin.

Potter eased him back slowly, cushioning Draco’s head with his now bunched up and most likely ruined shirt, smoothing the dampness over Draco’s skin and watching gooseflesh form. “The floors cold so if it’s too cold I’ll get you something, k? Just tell me… no sleeping ok? Malfoy? Malfoy??!!”

A sharp prod in the side brought Draco’s eyes swiftly open again, his mind reasserting itself as best it could, already tumbling into warm, happy slumber on the thought that the dumb Gryffindork seemed incapable of grasping that Draco could neither object or approve at this point, scowl forming again as he looked up at the green eyes above him and vaguely resented the warm shoulder that had been beneath his cheek.

He huffed gently, hoping Potter would realise he was getting off lightly in the light of Draco’s recent numbing of his mind, the sheer inability to think straight being the only thing stopping Draco from objecting strenuously and at great length to his not being smart enough to realise that his shoulder had been perfectly comfortable. Potter smiled, and Draco attempted to double his glare, wincing as Potter’s hand idly caressed his head, setting all those white buttons behind his eyes again, flashing and popping. His stomach churned uneasily, and he whimpered. Draco hated to be sick. It was so inelegant and… well not nice anyway, he decided, eyes narrowed on Potter’s odd grimace of a smile as he drew a hand over Draco’s throat.

“They show already. The marks… you can already see where I hurt you… I can see them already…” The smile twisted, crumbling downwards, gentle yet rough skin now stroking over softer, abused skin, “Oh god I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry.”

Draco let his eyes falter and slip away from Potter’s face, looking out into the enveloping darkness, trying to see anything but the genuine and somehow unjust sorrow Potter exhibited as he examined the hurt he’d caused.

“I’ll make it up to you, make it right, I swear, Malfoy, make it better…”

The annoying rumble of Potter’s panicked voice was dipping now, almost as though he were slowing closing a door between them, muffled as a layer of something comfortable and dim asserted itself around Draco’s brain, lowering him gently, softly…

“MALFOY!”

Rough hands seized him once more, jerked him upright and even as Draco cried out, mouth wide and screaming silently, a sharp blow ringing out on each cheek. Draco sobbed with shock and pain, his eyes lost to the dizzying swirl of colour, light and terrible, pounding pain, unable to focus on Potter’s concerned gaze, the same hands that hit him now cradling his cheeks and jaw, tilting his head to try and hold his attention.

“Malfoy? Malfoy? Listen to me, dammit, I need you to pay attention, just do as you are told for once, just bloody once in the time I’ve known you, just trust me, can’t you trust me? I need you to ‘NOT’ fall asleep, don’t you get it? If you go to sleep, you could DIE. I don’t understand how it works if I did I’d do something, but I don’t know, I’m sorry, but I don’t, but what I do know is that you can’t go to sleep because you could die and… and I don’t want you to! You hear me?”

Draco was hauled up, and against Potter’s chest again, face pressed into a sweat-slick expanse of clammy throat, Potter’s gulped repressed sobs echoing in his ears. “I don’t want you to die, I don’t want you to die, please, please don’t sleep, I don’t want you to die…”

The words reverberated on Draco’s eardrums, settling there before the meaning sunk in and Draco slowly slowed the soft, whimpering snivels he hadn’t known were bubbling in his chest, letting the hot tears fall against Potter’s cold throat and fighting, fighting so hard to keep his eyelids open.

“You can’t, can’t, I won’t let you die, not because of me, now again… just, just please, Malfoy, please, you just can’t sleep, or you’ll die, ok? You… you could die…” Steadier hands pulled at him now, twisting him gently so that his head lay, blessedly still and stable once more, somehow draped across the Gryffindor, tilted sideways to rest on to rest against his chest, cradled so his temple now rested against the brunet’s shoulder, leaving the throbbing, pounding ache in the back of his skull untouched, eyes now blinking dazedly up into wide, damp green eyes.

“Don’t die, I… I couldn’t, I couldn’t bear it, Malfoy, I just… couldn’t.”

Draco blinked slowly twice, only to stop him from closing them fully but, somehow Potter accepted this as an assent, a small smile curving one corner of his freshly bitten lips upwards and vaguely crinkling the edges of those irritatingly, impossibly green eyes.

“I… I don’t want you dead.” This was said in tones of wonder as if the reality of the fact had only just occurred to Draco’s current pillow substitute and Draco blinked at him in again in acknowledgement, an unsteady peace settling over him in the wake of the recent pain and confusion.

“Do…” Potter’s eyes were suddenly shadowed by something deep and painful, “Do you want ‘me’ dead… I mean, really truly…dead?”

Potter’s hands stroked lazily up and down Draco’s abdomen, seemingly of its own accord as the small crease between Potter’s eyebrows bespoke his focus on the matter at hand, his unruly, distracted fingers skated up and over Draco’s skin, summoning goosebumps even as his mind fought for purchase on a sentient thought.

Did he want Potter dead? His father did. His father and his aunt and Draco should, too… but it was so hard to remember why with Potter’s nimble fingers on his skin, his shoulder beneath his head, close enough to hear the steady thrum of the life beating in Potter’s chest. Did he want Potter dead? He remembered Potter’s hands at his throat, the rage in his eyes, the tears on his skin and… an odd chase of something hot and guilty swept along his back as out of nowhere he remembered the strange not kiss, Potter’s damp mouth and breath forced to mesh with his, saving his life, holding him steady, making him safe.

Potter ‘should’ be dead, his father had told him so but… did he want Potter dead?

Carefully and with as stony a countenance as he could manage while gritting his teeth against the rocking motion, Draco shook his head, just slightly, just… just wanting Potter to know that maybe, maybe he didn’t want him dead.

The not smile came back to Potter’s face and a warped smugness crowded Draco, wanting to smile, too, but suddenly absorbing the nuances concerning their little encounter that day. When he’d cried Potter had cried, he hurt just like Potter hurt and now, Potter smiling just that little bit and something in Draco was that bit happier. He tilted his head back slightly to better view this not smile and felt his brain swim in his skull partly through the motion, partly through the sudden burst of realisation that seared his entire being with truth. They were the same. Potter had said it, and to Draco’s bewilderment and horror, he found that he could in no way dispute it… they were the same.

Both happy and sad, both hurt and confused, both lost and frightened, both, both, both…

A tear rolled, surprising Draco with its sudden entrance, losing itself in the material of Potter’s shirt and the Gryffindor lifted a hand to chase away its counterpart on Draco’s other cheek, fingers skating just beneath his eye, spilling the drop as it barely burgeoned against his lashes.

“Maybe we should just stay in here forever,” Potter murmured, mouth still tilted but that little light gone from his eyes, chased away by the bleak look now residing there. “We could just stay here, and no one would try to hurt us, we wouldn’t try to hurt them, and we wouldn’t ever, ever hurt each other, we’d just be here. Together.”

Potter blinked then, heavily, lids drooping for just a moment before he ushered them skywards again, lashes fluttering in momentary confusion and something twitched and ached in Draco at the sight.

He’d never been ‘together’. Not with anyone. Crabbe and Goyle were a unit, both sending him sneaking sulking glances and heavy grunts and, and… He crinkled his nose, certain he was angry at them, but not completely sure why, but jealous though, so jealous because they were two and he was one. He was one with his mother, less than that with Father, barely there under that cold stare, always hoping, yearning for just one warm look, something just for him, something like the way Potter looked at him now.

Together. Together with Potter.

It was strange. The thought both hurt and healed, a warm wash of negative reasoning suddenly pounded into submission by the cold fact of Potter’s hand upon his skin, his eyes on Draco’s face, even the beating pain at his throat was better than the nothing inside him normally, so yes. Yes to together, here, forever with no one but Potter and no hurt, no more fighting just…

Potter’s fingers skimmed lightly over a nipple, the skin and nub screaming into life at his rough fingertips and the cool wake of his touch and Draco shivered violently.

Potter frowned. “Cold, Malfoy? Cold?”

Shifting further into the wall, he rubbed roughly at Draco’s upper arms, his chest and belly, rubbing hard circles into the flesh leaving a path of heat and uneasy prickles of something in his wake.

“Hang on, hang on, Malfoy, let me lay you down a sec, I’ll get some robes, wrap you up, where’s your shirt, I….”

No.

He couldn’t say it, but every cell screamed it, and he found his fingers embedded in the flesh of Potter’s forearm, eyes firm yet beseeching on Potter’s own dazed stare.

“You’re… you’re not cold? Don’t want your robes? I’ll, I’ll get them. I will if you...”

Draco shook his head slowly, skin rebelling all over, hairs standing on end, electricity seeming to race through him, inexplicable and hot with something… god what was it, why couldn’t he think straight? A dark flush stained his usually pristine cheeks, and Potter frowned again, Draco’s eyes were drifting to that little crease again as Potter lifted his hand from Draco’s chest to rest the backs of his fingers against his cheek.

“You’re hot,” he said simple, finger backs rubbing a soft circle into the warmth of Draco’s blush, “Too hot?”

Again, Draco shook his head as best he could, eyes trying to stay locked on Potter’s but blocked by the Gryffindor's repeatedly lowering lashes as the brunet attempted to keep his own heavy lids wide open.

“Ok,” he said, “Ok.” And Draco was entranced.

Ok. O.K.

He was staring at Potter’s mouth, and the wrongness rushed through him like fire, blood pounding downwards, mind swimming again with the lack of it. He remembered the not kiss and flushed still looking at Potter’s mouth. Did Potter know it was a not kiss?

Unsteadily he licked his lips and swallowed dryly as Potter’s eyes followed the movement.

“Malfoy,” Potter whispered, and his head was so close, so close, his mouth just there, all bitten and somehow still damp, Potter’s hand sliding down to rest just under Draco’s jaw, tilting, moving, lifting… oh.

Potter scraped his mouth gently over Draco’s.

Barely touching it was less than the not kiss and made Draco’s brow furl crossly, Draco tilting his head higher and whimpering sulkily deep in his chest as he pressed his mouth against the backwards moving Gryffindor, making the worse than not kiss so much more.

Potter gasped then, and a gust of warm air swept out and tickled at Draco’s lips before he parted them obediently, letting the air wash in and out of him just as before, but this time his chest wasn’t burning, and his head was solid and safe on Potter’s shoulder.

He croaked approvingly against Potter’s still immobile mouth and was suitably surprised when the Gryffindor slipped a quick wet tongue swiftly over the contours of his lips before smoothing away the dampness by pressing his mouth yet harder against Draco’s.

Not to be outdone by a mere Gryffindor and a shaking one at that, Draco pressed back too, lapping his tongue over Potter’s as their lips parted, both jolting, shocked at the contact before Potter’s tongue somehow seemed to stroke Draco’s and Draco’s head hurt more.

He wanted to tell Potter to stop, wanting to say to wait until the funny pounding in his ears, skull and bones had stopped, but instead he let his mouth slip wide, Potter’s head coming lower, bending his throat to the air, defenceless and vulnerable as Potter’s hand slipped low, then lower.

The blood beat madly in his veins, echoing painfully in his skull and somewhere past the sound of that he heard gasps and pants, laboured, strained breaths, and he didn’t know whose they were as Potter drew circles on his belly. His fingers stroked up and down from sternum to nipple to navel, and then Potter’s body slipped sideways on the wall, both tilting wildly, falling forwards, Draco under Potter’s body falling to the floor, Potter’s hand slipping, fingers skimming, sliding over belt buckle and button to brush hard, forceful, if unintentionally, at the throbbing, separate pain of Draco’s body, hard and wanting and too much… too much…

A burst of white-hot feeling burst in Draco’s skull, as they hit the floor together, the short slide down enough to knock Draco’s head against the cold wood. Pain exploded, blinding, choking even as his mouth opened in surprise and pleasure, collapsing deeper into Potter’s arms as his fingers brushed against Draco’s hardness, but his nerves, skin, throat, mind were too raw, too sensitive, too much and crying out in silent distress, Draco slipped into darkness.

*****************************

He slipped back to consciousness slowly, as though being gently lowered level by level from the scaling heights of sleep down into the steadying embrace of reality, inch by precious inch.

Finally, as his body learned to not try to shatter itself from the inside out with every shift or motion and each breath was no more a lurching, roiling chore, he opened his eyes.

Grey. The ceiling was grey, or maybe it was white, but the room was dim, and his eyes were already too tired to begin discerning colours as he blinked and attempted to reel in his mind.

His eyes were sore, as though he had gone too long without blinking, a distinct grittiness to them that would not wash away even as they watered at his focus on the ceiling above him. The ceilings in Slytherin were either rich forest green or turbulent, protective obsidian. Therefore, he was not in his bed or his rooms.

His throat hurt in its entirety, not only scratchy and dry within, but aching, stiff and tender without. He blinked and was tired again, but as his eyes fell closed, he had a last spark of realisation.

Infirmary, he thought semi-smugly. I’m in the infirmary.

When next he awoke, he remembered. He remembered everything with the startling clarity that goes hand in hand with that which you’d rather forget.

He swallowed, and it hurt him, Draco’s hands balling into fists at his sides as he recalled Potter’s fingers squeezing, white teeth a slash of spite above him in a face red with fury.

Potter had tried to kill him. Potter, Harry Potter, was not a hero at all, he was no better than a murderer, no better than… than…

Draco winced, turning his face into he pillow as his brain drifted across the thought of murderers, wrong-doers, villains… the kind of reprobates he’d expect to find rotting away like Sirius Black should have, like his father…

He whimpered low in his throat, eyes burning with anger and pain as the whimper set off a trail of fire burning from his mouth down past his pulse, echoing fitfully in his gullet like a halfway swallowed grape.

“Malfoy?” It was no more than an anxious whisper, yet Draco heard it as clearly as if it’d been a thousand sharpened talons scraped across a blackboard.

Potter.

A scruffy silhouette made its way into Malfoy's rage skewed gaze, a blurry outline of riotous kinks and waves that never lay flat somehow making themselves into a fierce snarl of black against the feeble grey light.

“Are you awake?”

Dry, cracked lips pulled themselves as if by habit from Draco’s bared white teeth, dying to spit and sneer at the stupidity of the question, the pain and choked gasp from his parched throat ruining the effect entirely. Almost instantaneously there was a cool, clear crystalline lip tipping sweet, pure water and quenching the agonising burn within.

If Draco hadn’t been quite so filled with murderous ire, he might, perhaps, have been grateful.

He swallowed slowly, relishing each slow slide of smooth liquid, eyes locked and slowly focusing past the blur onto the worried green gaze of the boy perched at the edge of his bed, supporting the glass and chewing his lower lip nervously. Had his lips not been otherwise occupied rejuvenating his system, Draco might have smirked and Potter might have known to run.

Whether it was the gradual slowing of Draco’s intake of fluid or the fixed gaze on his face that gave it away, Harry pulled the glass away, drawing in a breath to somehow start the apology that had been lingering on his tongue since he’d first regained consciousness, his memories flooding back, only to find that the time for sorry had been and gone. Too late, Draco’s eyes spat as a perfect white hand shot out to sink clawed fingers about Harry’s windpipe. Too late.

His breath was abruptly cut off, the slow in-drawn sigh blossoming into a shocked gasp as the silver eyes blazed dark before him and Draco allowed himself a sneer of utter loathing. The blond boy’s fingers dug painfully into the tender skin of Harry’s throat, and his eyes strayed to the companion markings at Draco’s neck, still purple and inflamed against the marble-white column of his throat and he shuddered, guilt bringing a pallor to his face and his Gryffindor tendencies forcing him to maintain eye contact even though he longed to crawl away and try to forget, ignore the horror that had apparently been hiding just beneath his skin.

Fury, blind fury raced through Draco’s veins as he felt the blood beating beneath the flesh within his grasp, the urge to squeeze and crush almost more than he could resist as shards of memories surged back through him.

‘ _What’s the matter, Lucius Junior…Think I should kill you, Malfoy? …Just stub you out of existence with all the joy you’ve got banked up for my death someday? Think your daddy would care, think they’d cry for you? …’_

“Fuck. You,” he spat or tried to, the words no more than a rough exhalation combined with a hoarse croak, his brows clustering together suddenly as the realisation that he truly could not speak sunk in.

“She… umm….” Potter whispered gently, “that is, Madam Pomfrey, she said she couldn’t fully heal you because you had to be conscious in order to speak some words or incantations or something while she does it just, umm, you were too hurt at first to wake up… I… you were concussed, I… I…” tears suddenly made the whites of Potter’s eyes gleam in the dim light, “I’m _sorry._ ”

Draco bared his teeth, wishing he could scream his rage into Potter’s reddening ears, trembling with an odd resurgence of fear at the recollection of Potter’s smashing his head into the floor, crushing his windpipe, weeping gently over him…

Draco blinked.

Strong, callused fingers clenched and unclenched, laying passive yet drawing the Slytherin’s stare and focus and Draco felt again Potter’s smooth yet rough hands traversing his body, stroking and soothing, petting and begging as they tried to undo their prior damage.

“I’ll make it up to you, make it right I swear, Malfoy, make it better…”

Draco shook, the memory of those hands on his body, the shocking bolt of pleasure at the barest brush of fingertips, the odd comfort derived in those arms, all serving to further ignite Draco’s warranted wrath.

“I. Would. Like. To. Kill. You. Potter.” He enunciated as clearly as he could through snarling teeth and curled lip, his voice carrying precisely nowhere but apparently still making its point as Potter’s lip trembled, and his eyes fluttered and dropped to the livid bruises.

The brunet took a desperate shaky breath and then, in a tone of almost reverence, he whispered, “Malfoy,” and let his eyes fall shut.

Draco hissed, unsure of Potter’s sudden shift in behaviour, eyes widening as the Gryffindor let his chin tilt backwards, body leaning into the harsh grip at his throat, somehow quiet, obedient almost… Draco stiffened then, fist clenching yet tighter on the smooth flesh beneath his hand, noting the tremor that worked its way over Potter’s body.

Submission. Absolute and total capitulation. Potter had surrendered, to him, had just given up for the sake of a few bruises and a nasty concussion.

Caught between elation and yet more inflaming rage, Draco let his fingers tighten to the point where his grip hurt him, and he could tell by the short, quick breaths in and out of Harry’s nose that had fully prevented his breathing. He slowly lessened his grip but made sure to shift his fingers lightly, pressing his short nails into the tender surface, noting the tip of one white tooth now digging into the edge of Potter’s bitten, red lower lip again.

“Potter,” Draco said, wanting him to open his eyes, let him see the pain, confusion, anything in the hidden green depths, but even as the silent word fizzled and sputtered out on Draco’s lips, a slow tear, fat and lazy, slid its way down the side of Potter’s face, having forced its way from the corner of his eye to stumble and catch at the point of a hollowed cheekbone.

Slowly, as though controlled by outside influences, Draco’s hand released its hold to slide up, cupping the firm line of Potter’s jaw to watch as his own wayward thumb stretched up to catch that teardrop against the pad of his thumb, quietly marvelling at its heat even as Harry’s eyes sprang wide in shock.

Draco was abruptly, overwhelmingly, tired. It was as though the one tear had washed away his rage and he resented that, regretted the loss of what he felt was truly deserved anger towards the boy who finally lived to be in the wrong, leaving only the odd sense of dismay and the fear in Potter’s eyes.

“Please,” Potter whispered, “Please.”

A breath whistled dully from between Draco’s suddenly gritted teeth, watching the pale expanse of Potter’s throat mottling rapidly as the blood flowed back into the finger marks he’d left imprinted there. Potter’s throat arched subtly into Draco’s lingering gaze, head tipping back slightly even as their eyes burned into each other’s, Harry’s drowning under the weight of self-condemnation and Draco’s own alight with the dawning of realisation.

Fear. There was fear and pain and guilt and aching dreadful hurt in Potter’s eyes, yet oddly enough, Draco was responsible for barely any of it. He recalled the crashing, startling loneliness that came at night, in silence, to press down hard with hurt and make him weep quietly into his pillow, the pain of loss, of betrayal, of guilt, becoming far, far too great a burden to bear by himself.

He saw that weight, that very same burden in the muted despair filled eyes before him.

_‘I didn’t mean to hurt you, Malfoy, not really. I just wanted to make you feel what I feel, what they feel… so easy to hate you when you cause so much hurt… but now you’re hurt, and I feel like, like when I look at you, and I see how hurt you are now because of me and how lost, how lost and frightened I feel like I hurt me…You are everything I’ve ever truly hated in one person… But I see your pain now… and it's my pain… it's just like mine… it hurts me… hurts you too… you… you’re just like …me.’_

_Just like me_ , Draco thought dimly and twisted his fingers again to press them hard, anew, into Potter’s smooth white neck, swallowing hard and feeling the answering pressure in the pain at his own throat.

He hated him. Draco had always, always hated Harry fucking Potter, overly favoured prick of the wizarding world and he knew that Potter had always felt exactly the same way about him. Only now he couldn’t place his feelings, couldn’t assign the easy label of detestation and spite to the odd trembling and heat beneath his skin, and he couldn’t shake the belief that, as per usual, Potter echoed him precisely.

He slowly reached his hand up from his side to trail suddenly hard fingers against the sore flesh of his own throat, watching his other hand smoothing tender pads against the mottled skin of Potter’s neck, letting his eyes fall shut as confusion swamped him.

“I thought you were dead.”

Draco opened his eyes slowly, watching the colour rise in Potter’s cheeks and frowning briefly at his words.

“When I opened my eyes and saw you there next to me,” Potter continued, voice halting with catches of breath in his chest, eyes flickering back and forth from Draco’s to his hands and back, “You were so still and so pale and the… the bruises, marks on your neck…” His voice trembled momentarily before shattering completely into tiny, breathless sobs interspersed with words, “I, I thought… I thought I’d killed you… hurt you, hurt you so much… and I couldn’t wake you… I, I tried, and you were so cold… and you wouldn’t wake up, you wouldn’t and I couldn’t, couldn’t tell you… I’m sorry, I’m so, so, so sorry…”

Harry's head fell forward, his jaw resting fully on the hand at his throat, sobs pouring pitifully from his heart it seemed, chest heaving fit to burst and, almost of its own volition, Draco’s hand slid upwards to cradle Potter’s nape, the other moving to push through the heavy dark locks tumbling forward, obscuring his face.

Draco shifted, gently, so gently forwards, a scant inch or so until he was leaning, actually leaning with something that felt dreadfully close to concern or caring or something equally horrific, towards a gently weeping Harry Potter.

“Potter,” He whispered, negating the effort with his lack of actual voice before trying it again, louder, oddly desperate for the Gryffindor to hear him.

“Harry,” The word rolled all too easily (if silently) from Draco’s lip and, watching the way the use of his name widened the inky black, tear damp lashes of Potter’s startled gaze, it occurred to Draco that crushing Potter was very much still an option.

Only his method had changed.

It would be too easy now, to just reach out and take the shaking boy, crush him in the palm of his hand as he’d felt he should before, just take the sacrifice now offered to him, Harry’s fragile soul suddenly bared and open to him. So why did it feel like taking his own life?

_I might cry, Malfoy… not wishing, no tears can bring you back, and you leave people, you leave them all alone, so FUCKING alone, Malfoy…_

Potter inched slightly forward, gently pushing himself further into Draco’s grip, breath hitching and Draco felt his own breath mirror the new quickening pace as his eyes fell to Potter’s bitten, sore, trembling mouth, watching as his own traitorous fingers smoothed the slight indents in the tender flesh.

Maybe he could and should break him, something in Draco whispered, shatter him, crush him within his grasp and then, when he was whimpering and lost without him, Draco could put him back together, keep him needing, wanting…

Draco was sick of wanting and never getting. He was ready to have, take… _Own_.

His fingers tightened, he could hear Potter’s rapid, harsh breath, glanced up and saw Potter’s eyes, again, green dwarfed by black and baring his teeth, Draco felt himself leaning forward, the memory of hot, damp lips simmering beneath the urge to crush… take…

“Mister Malfoy! Mister Potter, stop that this instant, I told you he was ‘not’ to be disturbed! Don’t you think you’ve done quite enough damage?”

The irony of Potter finally catching the blame at the moment Draco would have liked it most overlooked (not to mention for the wrong reasons) was not lost upon the Slytherin and with the tiniest of rueful smiles, he scheduled revenge on the bustling matron for a later date.

“Now, off that bed, Mister Potter, you can go now. Professor Snape said the potion would be entirely out of your system within a couple of hours and it’s been rather more than that now so off, off with you and we’ll have absolutely no more of this fighting business.”

She marched forward, scuttling Potter up and off of the bed with a few flapping hand gestures, a forceful hand on Draco’s chest shoving back against the pillows with a none too gentle ‘humph’ at his heightened colour.

Harry stood, hands wringing in front of him and he glanced back and forth between the stern Mediwitch and the as yet unfazed Slytherin, his eyes lingering on the heat burning in the pit of Draco’s gaze.

“Tomorrow?” he murmured tremulously, and Draco heard his breath hitch, despite the distance between them, at his slow, triumphant smile, nodding slowly, eyes lingering on Potter’s mouth.

“Yes,” he rasped, startling Pomfrey with his vehemence, “Yes.”

The matron turned from straightening Draco’s bedding, eyes firm, and hands firmer on her hips as she faced the Gryffindor again. “Well then, tomorrow it is, you know very well when visiting hours begin and, I must say, it’ll be nice to witness a little civility between you two boys for once.” Harry toed the ground and nodded, cheeks flushing, backing quietly towards the door and clumsily encountering the wall en route.

“Well then,” he murmured, eyes flickering up and meeting Draco’s steadily watchful gaze, blushing at the heat he found there, that same heat surprising Draco with the need to convey itself, “Goodnight.”

Draco nodded slowly, a tremor of apprehension sparking deep within before guttering out at the brunet’s hesitant smile, fingers lifting to stroke lightly at the blossoming bruises at his throat.

Potter was his, or as good as his.  He could feel it, and the knowledge fizzed throughout his blood and made him heady with success and something else he couldn’t quite name.

“Out, Mister Potter, goodnight.” Pomfrey chuckled, room crackling with hormones about her as she pointed out the door, bustling over to push the blushing, reluctant boy through it, noting his backwards glance and pushing him to the exit so that she might make it to her office all the quicker and allow her barely hidden smile to break through.

Teenage boys, she mused, grateful as Potter finally exited the hospital wing, was there any species more surprising? Retrieving the freshly brewed solution supplied by Professor Snape from her office, she composed herself and swept back through to see to a distinctly bemused and thwarted Draco Malfoy.

“Now you drink this down, Mister Malfoy. It’ll make you a little sleepy, but after that knock you took you could use the extra rest. We’ll see about that throat in the morning, you’re far too raw now to speak the incantation for me, but this potion’ll sort that nasty pain right out, don’t you worry.”

Sitting numbly in the wake of what now seemed an impossible course of events, Draco obediently drank down the distinctly chalky-tasting liquid, wincing and then sighing at the gentle buzz then numbing of his throat.

After a few more tweaks and fluffing of his pillows, the Slytherin soon found himself carefully tucked back into freshly charmed sheets, the cool fabric soothing his heightened nerve endings as he let himself slip slowly back into lethargy, thoughts muddled yet oddly content with the day's outcome as Pomfrey slipped from the room.

His father would be so angry, he thought drowsily, but then, his father wasn’t there, he’d left Draco alone and Potter… Harry… Harry was alone, too… so maybe, maybe it made sense to want… not just to want, but to want this?

An image seared the inside of his eyes, bright white throat arched back, giving, letting Draco thrust his fingers deep into the willing flesh, submitting…

It was wrong, so wrong to want, to need this way… and somehow nothing had ever felt so right. Sly warmth spread gently throughout his body, and he let fingers slide up over his torso to cup gently over the still bruised tissue of his throat, whimpering quietly. Then, as sleep took him, face thrust deep into the pillow, his last thoughts were of warm arms, firm hands and a troubled and damp mouth pushing gently at his own, green eyes shining surrender throughout, and for the first time in perhaps as long as he could remember, Draco Malfoy couldn’t wait for tomorrow.

 

Fin.


End file.
